Spockula
by tprillahfiction
Summary: A Star Trek: TOS Halloween Vampire story written in the style of Edgar Allan Poe.  Blood, POV Shifts. Horror with some comedy thrown in. K/S, Mc/OFC, S/OMC


Title: Spockula  
Author: tprillahfic (Oct 2010)  
Fandom: Star Trek: The Original Series  
Pairings: Kirk/Spock, McCoy/OFC, Spock/OMC  
Summary: A Star Trek: TOS vampire story written (sort of) in the style of Edgar Allan Poe.  
Warnings: Blood, POV shifts  
Disclaimer: Star Trek does not belong to me.

**SPOCKULA**

_**Year 0**_

He felt the cobblestones through the bottom of his boots. This particular road he traversed from Belsize Park, where he had a modest if comfortable abode, was kept intact by the Borough of Camden as it had been for hundreds of years prior, for tourists to gape at and photograph. He heard barking dogs in the distance. On a clear day, one could see most of London from the top of Primrose Hill. Not today. Even the hill itself and the streetlamps illuminating the way was barely visible in the heavy fog.

The grey, oppressively cold October sky, now began to weep. No matter, as he was of course, prepared as always, opening his large, ink-black umbrella and holding it over his felted hat. He pulled his knee length, black wool Burberry coat close to him, it was warm enough over his velvet jacket and waistcoat. He tightened his wool scarf even more securely round his neck and waited.

There was a loud _clop, clop, clop, clop_ behind him; he did not turn until it was absolutely necessary.

A wooden and glass funeral coach pulled up along side of him at the base of Primrose Hill from out of the fog and halted imposingly in the street. It was replete with a gothic attired, round spectacled, tall hatted undertaker driving a team of two speckled white thoroughbred horses.

The coach held a coffin inside the glass enclosure, however he did not morn, nor did he doff his hat in respect. For the coffin contained his most cherished friend, granted, but it was a man very much alive. Riding in a coffin in a funeral coach was simply the much revered, extremely eccentric fellow ambassador's preferred method of travel. When one was a Hungarian Count, Count Florian II, and as wealthy as this man, one could journey around London in whatever manner one chose.

The undertaker/driver had an odd face; he could not recognize the man. Perhaps this was a newly hired servant. The face appeared emaciated, grey, lifeless. "I presume you are the ambassador?" the undertaker/driver asked of him, in a haughty tone.

He nodded once, as always, very politely. "Indeed I am."

The undertaker/driver's hand was withered, like an old tree branch. It beckoned him over. "Come aboard, m'Lord."

He climbed on, next to the driver, (in the shotgun seat, as one might say on board a stagecoach.)

...

The dinner party on the estate (known as "Edenwood") in Hampstead Heath featured a sumptuous meal. Ten courses were served by vacant eyed servants, as equally emaciated at the undertaker/driver had been, on antique china and silver. The assembled throng of guests were seated at a long antique, exquisite teakwood table, topped by a silver candelabra containing beautiful red and black flickering candles.

He had eschewed the meat dishes, and especially the rather rare steak-as was his way- however there was plenty of other delicious food to satisfy one's hunger. Red wine flowed freely, served in delicate crystal goblets. The brightness of the liquid resembling human blood from a freshly opened artery.

It might be said that the wine appeared repulsive to him and at the outset he refused it, but as the evening wore on, he continued to notice the piercing gaze from his host, the count. Although the gaze was tempered by a small smile, it was chilling nonetheless.

As the count was a dear friend, it could be said that it was most impolite to decline the offer of drink, which had come from the cellar comprised of only the best. It was something of which he did not normally imbibe and the wine did possess an aftertaste not unlike iron. However, he cast his reservations/repulsions aside, and drank the from the crystal goblet anyway, ignoring the taste. The wine was centuries old, perhaps accounting for the flavour and after all, the count was a dear comrade.

Conversation between the guests flowed well, especially between himself and a beautiful young lady with red hair by the name of Lillith, seated to his right. Dessert was decadent: coffee and tea and a slice of five layer double fudge chocolate cake, something of which lent itself to a good humour.

...

This being All Hallow's 'een, there was to be a fancy dress/ masquerade ball immediately following the meal. After the cake and tea he retired to his room, attired himself in his costume: 'The Fool' 'from the tarot card deck', as it had said in the letter. It was personally chosen for him by his host, the count. As he donned it, he decided that this costume was a trifle...silly perhaps, but as the count was his dearest friend he could not bear to disappoint the man...

...

The dancing commenced at 9pm sharp. At the head of the wooden dance floor, crowded with masquers was a threepiece band with ghostly or ghostlike musicians in white make-up. One played a double bass, one an ethereal violin, the last sat at a piano- playing standards that appeared to be popular.

Amongst the partygoers was a 'headless horseman', a handful of clowns, a 'raggedy ann and andy', many others in gothic capes and waistcoats, a handful in monk or priest frocks, countless others in various styles of French aristocratic attire, various English Kings, and Queens.

Of course he was well able to discern who each and every one was by their respective voices, though the understood palour game was to query each other repeatedly but never to guess correctly.

A man in an extremely convincing 'Angel of Death' costume drew near. This particular costume consisted of a long grey gown with a hooded cowl and grey wings attached to the man's back. There was an expanse of black fabric where the face should be. Slightly unsettling.

This 'angel' carried a scythe (which appeared to be real) in one hand, (claw rather). In his other claw, he held out a silver tray.

"Would you like a toadstool?" the angel asked. One could not place who this particular angel really was. "They're quite delicious."

He studied the proffered tray. "These are poisonous mushrooms." He recognized the variety. "Even in a minute amounts consuming them proves deadly."

The angel laughed heartily and replied in a deep baritone (one still could not place who this man was): "No, no, no! My friend. You are gravely mistaken. For these are not real toadstools. Merely sweets in the very shape of a deadly mushroom. Confectionery! I would not deign to murder you, my friend!" More laughter erupted from the angel of death, the grey and black fluttering from the puffs of merriment.

"Pardon me, but they do resemble poisonous mushrooms."

"Gorgeous, aren't they?" The angel laughed again, then sobered. "Try one."

He gallantly declined, wondering what sort of logic there was involved in the creating and consumption of a piece of confectionery shaped exactly like a deadly fungi.

"You being 'The Fool', one would think you would be...up for such things," the angel remarked.

"It is merely a costume, thank you." Chosen by his host, not by him.

"Where's your dog?" The angel looked about. "The fool usually has a little dog."

"Why?" he found himself asking.

"The dog represents your animal desires."

"I have no such thing." At the same time the six pointed hat he wore (there were tiny bells sewn onto each end), tinkled. The angel, again, laughed at him.

"You are the mystical cleverness bereft of reason within us."

"Not I," he replied. "I am a student of logic."

"Logic?" the angel whispered. "No, not The Fool."

"This is merely a costume," he repeated.

The angel continued, undaunted: "You are on a precipice, you are the spirit in search of experience, the flesh, the alchemist, the holy madness. You are the beginning and the end, neither and otherwise, betwixt and between, the path of which one might...take."

He found himself becoming inexplicably uncomfortable at this particular exchange, it could be said the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. "I do not understand."

"A significant change is coming your way. Soon."

He slowly backed away from the angel, about to excuse himself. "This is merely a costume, forgive me."

"Sure you don't want a sweet?" the angel asked quickly, once again, before he could walk away. "They're delicious."

"No, thank you," he said, more firmly this time.

"Your loss, Fool." The Angel of Death instead turned on his heel, sauntering off, leaving him, The Fool, standing there to collect himself. 'Off to find a new victim', he mused, till he berated himself for being entirely irrational. Wearing this costume, perhaps was not the wisest idea if it invited ridicule.

...

He had found Lillith, the lady who had sat to his right at dinner, (or more accurately, she had found him). She wore a stunning green 'Marie Antoinette' frock, featuring a mini guiotine (with accompanying 'blood') strung onto a pearl necklace around her neck and a flame red pompadour wig. She held up a masque lined in white exquisite lace to her face.

"My Lord," she said softly. "We meet again."

He raised an eyebrow, invisible under his masque. "Madame, you cannot know my identity," he admonished her gently. The rules of the party insisted otherwise.

"Oh, my Lord, I know who you are," she said, giggling at every tinkling noise his hat made. "and I wish to know you even more."

He nodded, making her giggle again. Though he was not particularly attracted to females, he acquiesced in dancing with her the samba, the rumba, the fox trot, the jitterbug and as many others as she could come up with. Her constant company appeared harmless, was enjoyable enough and it kept any others away, so he continued to dance with her under the host's watchful eye.

...

As the hour stuck 12:01 midnight, (a minute late came the gongs of the grandfather clock) there was enthusiastic applause as the most recent song ended. He felt...he felt dizzy. It was worsening as the hours wore on but he attributed this to the lively music, perhaps the continuous vigorous dancing of which he had not had a break, less he disappoint the young lady who was more than able to keep up with him.

Normally his stamina was excellent. Possibly his slight illness was due to the cake he had consumed earlier...or the wine. He shrugged off the symptoms and was about to take Lillith's hand to dance the next tune, till he heard the Angel of Death flutter behind him: "'Tis the Witching Hour..." the angel breathed into his ear. "Fool..."

He turned sharply at this but the angel had disappeared, most likely hidden by the throng of dancers.

The music played on but he held Lillith back at arms length.

"Why, what is the matter, my Lord?" she asked, with obvious concern in her voice.

"I must," he hesitated, for he could not explain his increasing unease to the young lady, "I shall turn in for the night. I...must arise very early in the morning." T'was not a lie he spoke. Lies were not his way and he did have an early morning meeting with Her Majesty the Queen. However he could conceivably forgo many night's sleep for long stretches but as he felt himself becoming even more bizarrely unwell as the night wore on, perhaps it was indeed time to turn in.

The tone of the music grew foreboding.

"It is only early! One more dance, my Lord," Lillith begged of him. "It is my favourite: Romeo et Juliet by Prokofiev- 'The Dance of the Knights'. Come." She held out her hand. "Please...dance with me."

She was extremely persuasive, especially in his current condition. He needed to get away, but he shelved his reservations, took her hand and began to dance along with the rest of the throng.

He glanced over as they passed by the ghostly musicians and did a double take. The three appeared to have suddenly multiplied into an orchestra. Fascinating. He caught the eye of the first violinist, (now there were five more like him) and the musician in stark white make-up smiled wide at him, exposing what appeared to be fangs. Ah, merely part of the man's costume. Yes, that must be it. Humans did not possess fangs. Not really. But, where had the additional musicians that now played so beautifully, so enchanting come from? He was seeing double, triple, quadruple.

He shook his head in a feeble attempt to clear it, turned to his partner, swung her around and kept up the Dance of the Knights, under the watchful eye of his host.

...

He lay on his bed, still dressed as The Fool. His guestroom was comfortable, a fire blazed in the fireplace, a candle illuminated the room further. He was warm enough, but still he felt unwell. He kept his eyes closed, for every time he opened them, the room spun.

He checked the timepiece: 12:30am. He had managed to break away from the party as soon as the song ended-within the Witching Hour...as he remembered the words from the Angel of Death. The angel disconcerted him and he could not ascertain why, but there was something amiss.

Strains of organ music composed by Johan Sebastian Bach filtered through the walls or floor. He sat up, transfixed. He must locate the source.

...

As soon as he entered the chamber, illuminated by a fiery torch, the music ceased. His dear friend, the count, turned away from the organ. The count's complexion appeared pallid, the eyes lined in red. The count was attired in black, with a crimson velvet waistcoat, a black cape, and a medal that hung from his throat.

"At last," the man whispered. "I have been waiting for you."

"I do not understand."

"Oh...you will. Very soon. It is your destiny."

"My destiny?" He somehow knew deep in his psyche he was in danger, he should run, get as far away from this man as he possibly could, but he found now, that he could not. He was somehow immobile.

He could only breathe and watch as his dear friend, the Hungarian count, crept towards him. "My lovely bride, Lillith, kept you entertained for me. Now it is my turn."

"Your bride?" He swallowed. "Forgive me, I did not realize you and she were married. I meant no offense by dancing-"

"Oh, none taken." The count gave another small smile. "I've only just married her, yesterday. Still a virgin. As pure as snow. Just waiting for the ritual consummation. Now, as for you and I..."

He did not wish to disappoint this man, he would do anything for him...but he should run...escape...he had been lured...but he could not move...and he could not bear to upset his dear, dear friend.

Count Florian II now stood only a hairsbreath apart from him, the man's mouth very close to his own. He could feel the coolness of the skin, sense the hunger radiating from the man's pores, as the man began to touch him, caress him, running a hand down to his genitalia. His penis became engorged by this, trapped in by his costume.

He was still frozen in place, desperate to move, but could not.

The count pulled him forward by the chin, kissing him. He had perceived it as a gentle kiss, but the count must have broken the skin somehow. Blood dripped from his lips to his chin.

The count struck out his tongue, licked the blood, tasting it, savoring the taste. His eyes rolled into the back of his head for a moment. "Copper."

"Yes," he whispered. "I am not...like you."

The count made a noise of approval, a scream nearly like a howl of an animal. The sound, was ear piercing, chilling. The count suddenly yanked off the hat of The Fool, and turned his head to stare pprovingly. "Pointed ears. I have never noticed these before. Are you spawned of the devil?"

He wanted to explain but he could no longer speak any words. Their eyes were locked. The count's hand reached under his costume, through the layers of fabric to stroke his now very engorged penis, the hand icy but it urged him to completion as they stood there, transfixed.

The count smiled wide, revealing sparkling white fangs.

As soon as the orgasm hit, the count leaned forward, bit down hard on his neck.

There was only one thing he could do.

He screamed.

* * *

_**Year I**_

McCoy closed the book, furrowing his brow. "I dunno, Jim...I mean...yes of course you're absolutely right it's a farfetched story, but don't you think there might be some truth to it?"

"Bones. You mean to tell me you actually believe in vampires?"

"Now, how do you explain what happened to the Artolian Ambassador?"

"You're the doctor, Doctor," Kirk said. "You tell me."

"The corpse was found in his appointed VIP cabin, completely exsanguinated, via two bite wounds on the neck." McCoy illustrated this by using two fingers to point to his own neck. "Nobody on board ship could possibly have done something like that under normal circumstances. Not a trace of blood left in the man's system, nor was there was any plasma, no pools of blood found anywhere near the body."

"And your theory is that this anomaly is due to somebody on board being a vampire."

"It might be one of my theories, yes." McCoy coughed into his hand.

"What are your other theories, Dr. McCoy?" Spock asked.

"I'm working on formulating additional theories," McCoy hissed at him. "Listen, Jim. This case seems to resemble those legends." He stared at them each in turn, ominously. "Vampires. Like in Dracula or Carmilla, or the old film Nosferatu, or even," he held up the book found in the Ambassador's cabin, "The Count of Hampstead Heath-"

"I get the picture. I think you read too many old horror novels."

"Jim."

Kirk waved him off. "Mr. Spock, report. What do you know of Vampires?"

"Only the basics and one rather fascinating legend." Spock told him the details.

"Jesus," Kirk replied, horrified.

"And it is Halloween, Jim." McCoy added.

"What the hell does Halloween have to do with anything, Bones? Vampires don't just attack on Halloween. Do they?"

Bones sighed and folded his arms.

"At the very least a murder has occurred, Captain," Spock said, attempting to be helpful.

"And the only answer you have, for this man's death, Dr. McCoy, is that a vampire murdered the ambassador by sucking his blood dry, and then let me guess, the ambassador might wake up, stalking my ship, as a vampire."

"No, he's dead, Jim. I made sure of that."

"Alright, being as we now are in deep shit," Kirk said, closing his eyes, "the Enterprise Halloween party is canceled until we get to the bottom of this."

McCoy pouted, just a little, staring hard at the huge blow-up spider decoration resting on it's stringed 'web' in a corner of sickbay. He'd been looking forward to that party for months. "Yes sir."

* * *

_**Year II**_

"Look at this, Jim." McCoy thrust the antique tome at Kirk.

"What, Bones?" Jim asked, yawning. "I've got work to do on the bridge. Is this why you called me down to sickbay?"

"Look at it."

Kirk glanced down at the illustration in the book in his hands. "There's a painting of some guy. Big deal."

"Jim, for the love of God, would you just look at it?"

"What am I looking at? Quickly, Bones, before I put you on report for wasting my time."

"Don't you see it? That vampire-count-whatever, looks exactly like Spock." He tapped the page with a finger.

Kirk squinted at the image. "It does not."

"You need your eyes checked, Jim. Maybe you're due a physical. Look at it again."

Kirk sighed. "Okay, maybe this Hungarian count does look a little like Spock."

"It looks exactly like him. Look, he's even got pointy ears. And look at the teeth on that guy."

"Whatever you say, Bones."

...

"Report, Dr. McCoy."

McCoy repeatedly flipped over a stuffed witch in his hands. "Jim, I can't find any scientific explanation as to what happened to the crew of USS Demeter. Spock had found the occupants all dead, Jim. When I got to them, I determined their cause of death: all completely exangunated."

"So much for the Halloween party this year," someone quipped.

McCoy and Scotty both swore under their breaths.

* * *

_**Year III**_

"Bones, what are you wearing?" In the lift, Jim pointed to the symbol attached to a chain around the CMO's neck.

"What this? Nothin' Jim."

"That, Dr. McCoy," Spock said. "Is a crucifix."

"Oh, thank you so very much for your input, Mr. Spock," McCoy snapped.

"I know what it is." Jim sighed mightily. "Bones, why are you wearing a crucifix?"

"No reason at all, Jim."

"Jewelry is against regulation," Spock pointed out.

"It's Halloween, Spock. Besides, what difference does it make? I wear a pinky ring."

"That is also against regulation. Tonight's fancy dress party is not until 21:00 hours. Until then, wearing of such symbols is non-regulation."

"Oh, really. So it's okay for you to often don a non-regulation Vulcan IDIC symbol at dinner, Mr. Spock. But it's not okay for me to wear this crucifix around my neck. Sounds like a double standard to me."

"That is an outright exaggeration. I have worn my IDIC medal on precisely three occasions."

"'Three occasions' falls under the umbrella of 'often'."

"It does not."

"Does too."

"Bones!" Kirk snapped. "You're not a Roman Catholic."

"So that means I can't wear a crucifix? I am a Baptist. A Christian man, Jim," McCoy said, indignantly. "I believe that Christ died on the cross, therefore I can-"

"How about," Kirk broke in loudly, "we re-institute a shipwide ban on anybody wearing religious or cultural symbols while on duty. Commander? Doctor? Are we in agreement on that?"

"Of course, Captain."

"Fine, Jim.

"Good." Kirk eyed a plastic pumpkin decoration attached to the turbolift wall. "Who put this in here?"

"I dunno."

"Remove it please."

The three exited the lift and stepped onto the bridge.

"_Security to Captain Kirk_," the entercomn suddenly called out.

"Kirk here, what is it?"

"_Crewman Kettler found dead in Engineering_."

"Goddammit!" McCoy swore under his breath, as he and Kirk and immediately turned on their heels, re-entering the turbo lift.

* * *

_**Year IV**_

"Mr. Spock, do you think you could take a break from killing people on Halloween so that we could actually have a party this year?" McCoy asked the Vulcan in the level 7 corridor in all seriousness.

Spock was distinctly taken aback. "Doctor, are you suggesting that those deaths each Halloween were in any way shape or form, attributed to me?"

"I am."

"Have you any proof?"

"No." McCoy sounded downright disgusted as he waved in the air. "Just circumstantial-"

"Ah, the accusations are unwarranted. Of course."

"You see, we've never been able to have a Halloween party since we've started this five-year mission."

"That is not my fault."

"Yes it is. I did some checking. Same thing was happening every Halloween on the Enterprise before any of us others signed on, twelve years prior. You are the only common variable. And your other ship: The Potemkin. Same thing. All, on Halloween. They never got any Halloween parties either." The doctor scrunched up his face. "Must be feeding day."

"Doctor, that is entirely coincidental and offensive. Need I remind you, I am a Vulcan."

"Then, I thought perhaps there might be a medical reason for such behavior, thought you might be suffering from some crazy Vulcan form of Porphyria, but I ruled it out."

"I am not afflicted with the disease. And, I am, as you know, a vegetarian. I do not crave nor suck blood-"

"Uh huh. Lemme see your teeth."

"Doctor this is not-"

"Let me see them."

Spock sighed and indulged the doctor, opening his mouth and baring his pearly whites, allowing the man to closely examine him. "As you are well aware, there are no fangs."

"You do possess canines."

"As you are so fond of reminding me, that is my human half peeking out."

McCoy pulled out a sprig of garlic from behind his back and held it out menacingly. "I'm on to you, Vampire," he growled.

Spock raised an eyebrow and walked away.

...

"Bones, stop accusing Spock of being a vampire," Kirk admonished him, as soon as the CMO stepped into the conference room.

"Jim, don't you think it's even a little suspicious? Every Halloween somebody bites the dust. No pun intended." He looked over at Spock and Spock turned away. "It's always the same cause of death: Exanguination though two bite wounds. Usually after your first officer has disappeared for a little bit."

"Bones," Kirk warned.

"And what about-"

"Knock it off, Bones. There's no such thing as vampires."

McCoy lashed out and suddenly grasped Spock's hand. "He feels icy cold to the touch, Jim!"

Spock yanked his hand away from McCoy's clutches. "As you are well aware, my normal body temperature is several degrees cooler than your own. I am a Vulcan."

"So you keep telling me," McCoy snapped. "And you do seem a little glowing today. Healthier than usual. Did you just...feed?"

"Bones. You're now on report. No more of this vampire hooey, do I make myself clear?"

Bones flicked a glare at Spock, who regarded him evenly. "Perfectly, Captain."

"_Security to Captain Kirk_."

"Kirk here. What is it, Chief?"

"_Crewman Zober, sir. Found dead in his quarters_."

"Oh, come on, Spock!" McCoy huffed as the three stalked out of the conference room. "I liked Mr. Zober!"

"Bones!"

* * *

_**Year V**_

McCoy adjusted his velvet Shakespearian costume at the long mirror in the captain's quarters. "It's a minute before 21:00 hours and nobody's dead, Jim. How about that," he cracked. "We might actually get our party this year."

Kirk checked himself in the mirror, spinning around. "Don't speak too soon, Bones."

"You know something I don't?"

"Not at all." Kirk motioned at the thing once again hanging around McCoy's neck. "Shakespeare wore a huge silver crucifix?"

"I'm not Shakespeare, Jim. I'm a prince from that era. Who happens to wear a crucifix."

"Maybe you should have went as a monk. Might make more sense."

"Didn't feel like it, Jim."

"Oh."

"Where's Spock?"

"Getting ready." Jim sighed and couldn't hide his smile.

"You two, uh..." McCoy nudged him. "You like him. Don't you."

"Don't know what you're talking about." Jim was still smiling.

"Where'd you get that costume?" McCoy motioned at the hat and Jim obligingly placed it on his head to complete his outfit. The bells attached to six pointed hat, tinkled. "You're 'The Fool' from the tarot card deck," McCoy noted, chuckling, looking at him up and down.

"You would know what this is supposed to be. Spock sent this over to me. It's an antique. Told me he'd very much like to see me in it."

"It's beautiful. Fits your personality rather well."

"Does it?" Jim smiled that peculiar smile, again.

The door buzzed. "Enter," Jim called out.

Spock strode in, resplendent in his outfit.

"That's not very goddamned funny," McCoy snapped at him. "You've done that deliberately." Spock was dressed as a Romanian (or Hungarian) 19th century Count, with a scarlet red waistcoat, white frilly shirt, white gloves, black cape, black trousers, and his IDIC medal hanging on a red ribbon around his neck. "You look pale."

"Make-up."

"The hell it is. You're a goddamned vampire. Dracula to be precise. Or maybe I should call you: Spockula."

"Bones, one more vampire crack outta you and I'm banishing you to sickbay and then you definitely won't get your party."

McCoy grimaced. "Alright, Alright."

"You look wonderful, Spock." Jim caught Spock's eye, held it till Spock smirked back at him.

"As do you, Jim."

"Thanks, for the, uh...Fool costume."

"You are, of course, welcome. It looks quite fetching on your physique."

"Can we go?" McCoy asked, impatiently as the captain and the first officer seemed to make googoo eyes at each other, or what passed as googoo eyes for a Vulcan. "I'm gonna turn into a pumpkin if we don't hurry up." He went to the mirror again, pausing as he spotted a blemish underneath his eye. "Now, what the hell is that? A zit? At my age?"

As Spock passed directly behind him, on his way out of the cabin, McCoy froze.

"Bones." Kirk turned back to him, in the doorway. "Coming?"

"Yeah, Jim." He hadn't seen Spock's reflection. He needed a drink, and fast. "Coming."

...

The party was in full swing by the time the senior staff showed up (except for Scotty and Chekov who had been there from the get go).

McCoy rolled his eyes at the sign on the Rec-deck bulkhead: 'Welcome to the first annual Enterprise Halloween party.'

"Five years we've served aboard this tin can," he groused to anybody who would listen-didn't seem like anybody was-as he scowled and sipped his glass of bourbon. Actually there was a pretty new officer he'd never noticed before listening to him. Downright hanging on his every word and batting her eyelashes, "and this is the first Halloween we've been able to celebrate," he told her. "Sad, if you ask me."

The young lady laughed, looking lovely in her green Marie Antoinette frock. "Seems to be just an excuse for everyone to dress like prostitutes."

"A girl after my own heart," he breathed. "Where've you been hiding?"

"I'm new. Just transferred here yesterday."

"Thank the Lord. And your name is?"

"Lieutenant Hammer."

"Darlin, it's a party. First names only apply here." He flashed his blue eyes. "I'm Leonard."

"I'm Lillith."

He kissed her hand. "Lillith. What a lovely, lovely name. For a beautiful, enchanting young lady."

...

The attendee's of the Enterprise first annual Halloween party, now danced the 'Dance of the Knights', from 'Romeo and Juliet'.

Everyone was on the dance floor, from the naughty nurses, to the dominatrix, to the master (Sulu) and his slave (Kyle) to the ghouls, to the schoolgirls, to the numerous French maids, to Scotty (as Batman), and Chekov (as a woman), Lt. Uhura as Supergirl, and even Christine Chapel in a sexy corset and M'Benga as a Greek Warrior. Everyone. The dance was choreographed by First Officer Spock. He'd efficiently demonstrated to the assembled throng the required steps, 'In his Spockula guise," mused McCoy as he held Lillith's hand and prepared to dance with her the 'Dance of the Knights'.

Jim and Spock danced this together too, as they'd been dancing every dance all night long as if they were the only two present.

...

Now there was a conga line, headed by a mysterious crewmember, dressed as a dominatrix in a black leather waistcoat with numerous zippers, cape, leather tights and black boots. She wore a black mask and wished only to be known as 'Whip-lash'. Scotty was right behind her in the conga line. He was entranced by her and courted her the entire evening.

"Scotty as Batman," McCoy whispered to Kirk as they passed each other with their respective dance partner's in tow. "Hmph. I don't get it."

"Huh?" Jim appeared distinctly out of it, seemingly unable to walk lately without being continuously aided by Spock.

"Jim, how much have you had to drink tonight?"

"What? I'm fine, Bones. No more than you've had."

...

It was the Witching Hour, (00:30 hours). McCoy had lead Lillith over to a more...private area, the observation lounge, as other partygoers were also doing their respective disappearing acts.

He'd backed her into a corner, into the shadows. She was ensconced in his arms and he made a move to kiss her when she reached out and caressed his crucifix. "This is very interesting," she remarked.

"Protection," he said, laughing.

"Against what?"

"I don't know," he lied, feeling rather silly.

Suddenly the chain broke apart in her hand. The crucifix clattered to the deck with a loud clatter. "Oh dear," she said. "I am so sorry."

"It's alright. Don't really need it, anyway. It's not like you're anything to worry about." He quickly bent down to retrieve it and stuffed it into the pocket of his green velvet pantaloons. Eager to get back to where he was, his lips met hers. He was about the deepen the kiss when he heard a 'tink'. He turned his head at the noise.

Jim and Spock had entered. Their hands were intertwined, Spock had removed his white gloves and they stood focused onto each other, like a laser beam on it's highest setting. There was nothing else like the attraction, the desire they obviously exuded for one another. Their lips met in only the gentlest of kisses but by their reaction to it, it appeared bruising.

It was intoxicating, arousing, so tempting to watch them at this delicate dance, so much more than anything he had ever witnessed but McCoy felt much too uncomfortable being the voyeur. "Hey, Spock," he called out quietly in the dead silence.

"What is it?" Spock whispered back. Kirk leaned his forehead to his, eyes closed. Spock's hands stroked the man's face, seemingly unconcerned by the audience.

"We were here first." McCoy took the opportunity to kiss a trail up Lillith's neck.

"We outrank you."

"I'm the CMO. Physicals coming up."

Spock sighed. That threat was startlingly affective on everyone. "We shall...take this elsewhere." He lead the captain towards the exit.

McCoy noted that Kirk's eyes were glassy.

"Spock...wait," McCoy said, but hesitated.

The pair stopped in front of McCoy and Lillith. Spock reached out and cupped the underside of McCoy's chin with the barest of touches. "You have lost your crucifix."

McCoy felt a chill at the contact, the icy fingers that seemed to bore right into his soul. He found himself now unable to reply, unable to move.

Spock released the doctor and nodded at Lillith. "Madame."

"Of course, m'Lord," she replied.

Jim appeared to be under some kind of a trance, perhaps it would be better if the pair stayed in the observation deck, under the doctor's watchful eye, but Spock had his arm gripped firmly on his prey, leading him out. Perhaps prey was too strong a word, but as soon as they left, McCoy was free to move again. He felt his chin where Spock had briefly lain his fingers, the ghosting of the touch still reverberating from the contact. He shivered.

...

Since they had begun serving together they completed each other. They understood each other. Flourished together. He had never experienced this before. But there, as always, was the hunger, the need that he must quell. He has always been able to fight the urges to feed until once each year: All Hallows Eve. The drive was too strong on this day.

He dammed this curse he possessed, (for he is so very cursed), he has been since the feeding first occurred and now he has been alone for so long very long, and this man was the one and he was so lonely, waiting, waiting, waiting for this man to be borne, for hundreds of years. He must have him. He could not help himself. Wanted his warmth, his life-force. For the man was here, waiting to be taken, begging him to be taken, and he watched his dear captain from the shadows...

...

McCoy could not stop shivering, even as Lillith knelt down in front of him, gotten his cock free and worked on him expertly with her mouth. Even as he had come with a groan down her delicate throat, he could not stop shivering.

She put him away when they'd finished, fastening his trousers. He fished into his pocket for his crucifix. He held it up and stared. It was broken into several tiny pieces.

"Oh God," he gasped, and sunk to his knees.

...

He prepared him; slid into him. His dear captain gasped at the stretch. Now finally they would become one. Forever.

...

A nauseating dizziness enveloped McCoy, he was unwell, a pain throbbed in his temples, a foul metallic taste, like iron, lingered in his mouth. He could not stop the chill.

"I will help you to your quarters," Lillith offered.

"Sickbay," he managed. "I'm...feverish."

He found himself shaking even more; Lillith was so very cold. He lifted his hand away from her, stared numbly at the blood on his palm. The broken crucifix must of sliced into him, he'd been clutching the sharp pieces so tightly.

Lillith noticed, took his hand, brushing the offensive scraps away. She struck out her tongue, lapped at his blood. A haze was forming over his vision as she did so, but he could see the dark residue on her lips, her hungry gaze.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"It will be all be so much better...soon." She brought his hand again to her lips, slid his fingers into her mouth, sucked on them with obscene slurping noises. He began bleeding profusely from the wound. His arm tingled with pins and needles. Blood, his blood, ran down her face.

"Wait..." he said, horrified at the sight of her drinking him in. Licking her bloody chops. He was a physician, used to seeing all manner of grotesque sights, but at this, he wanted to vomit. "Stop...are you...what are you..." He dared ask: "Are you a vampire?"

"Yes," she told him, simply.

He breathed, his eyes widening in terror. His worst nightmare had come to life. The novels that terrified him so, but he read them voraciously, he was addicted, so much so they kept him from sleeping sometimes. Vampires weren't a myth, they were real! He knew it. "Jim," he whispered. Jim had looked gaunt, pale, just as ill as he now felt, when Jim and Spock had left over an hour ago. He needed to  
get to them.

Jim and Spock, they were in danger.

"He will be taken care of. My Lord will see to it."

"Who?" He could not follow her any longer, could not process her words, but deep down he knew he needed to get to his friends. If only he could get to them, he had to help them. His reflexes were slow, he was clumsy, but gathering up all his strength, he pushed Lillith away, dragging himself out of her clutches.

"Come back," she gasped.

He wanted to be with her-but he got away-staggering down the corridor. He was so tempted to stay with her, she was so intoxicating, beautiful, she felt so good. So she liked a little bloodplay...but he needed to help Jim and Spock. She might kill them.

His dearest friends.

He rounded the corner and ran smack into the 'Angel of Death'. It screamed and his heart stopped for a moment, but this thing was only a wayward decoration. He kicked it out of the way, desperate to move forward.

He managed to get to his quarters, arming himself with a string of garlic (he always kept it available, you just never know) and slinging it around his neck. (He was terrified.) He staggered back down the corridor. Where would they be? Making love probably, but in whose cabin? He felt ridiculous. It would be rude to interrupt them. Jim had been resembling a love-sick teenager for months and now he finally had his Spock. But both were in terrible danger.

He took a chance that they were in Spock's quarters and punched the door release. The door was of course, unlocked as was Spock's way. Jim and Spock were together on the bunk. Both nude. They were making love. McCoy immediately felt shame for interrupting, was about to apologize for the intrusion and excuse himself, but...

Spock was behind Jim, holding him tightly, Jim's eyes were closed, his head thrown back. Spock's mouth was wide open, betraying sparkling white fangs.

McCoy shrieked and stumbled over to the partition. He slid down the metal, collapsing onto the deck, his strength failing him. "Spock..." he croaked. "Don't kill him. Please...please don't kill him." He held out his bloody palm, begging: "Take me instead. Please...take me."

"No," Spock replied. He sounded different with the fangs. Looked absolutely terrifying. "He...is mine. And always shall be." He returned his attentions to Jim and prepared to bite down onto the firm, glistening skin.

"No!" McCoy screamed. "Don't!" He managed to get his feet under him, pushed himself up with everything he had. There was a hand phaser near Spock's desk, he reached over, scrabbled at it, knocking down a PADD. Finally he grabbed it, training it on Spock. "I won't let you."

"Bones." Jim opened his eyes. He smiled peacefully. He sounded perfectly lucid. "Stop. I want this."

"Jim?" Jim couldn't possibly want this. Not this, but he couldn't fight it. He was becoming too weak. The haze in McCoy's vision had a red tinge around the edges. Blood leaked profusely from the wound on his palm. He made no move to stop the flow, it ran down his wrist, it pooled underneath him, darkening his velvet pantaloons. His strength ebbed, the phaser dropped from his hand, clattering to the deck. He followed suit. "No..."

McCoy could only sit in abject terror, the reluctant voyeur, as Spock resumed fucking Jim. At orgasm he bit down hard on Jim's neck. Jim gasped in what sounded like ecstasy as Spock fed on him, his lover.

McCoy could only wait, stunned and weeping, eyes fluttering. He slowly bled out and everything he ever knew and cared about faded to black.

...

_Personal log, Stardate 3666.78_

Dr. Leonard McCoy reporting.

Well, after waking up in the sickbay the day after the Enterprise's First Annual Halloween party, I feel extremely foolish. Jim had told me he'd found me bleeding profusely after I'd managed to cut myself on a glass or something, pretty damned deep. I'd managed to severe an artery in my hand. I'm lucky to be alive, actually! I guess I was so damned drunk on Romulan Ale I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I don't remember a thing about that damned party. (Note to self, no more Romulan Ale.)

So, anyway, I could have sworn I'd met a lovely young lieutenant named Lillth Hammer- I think her name was- but no, nobody on board ship by that name. I haven't seen her since. Simply a figment of my imagination.

Just an odd note: Jim had mentioned that I'll need to throw him and Spock in the brig next Halloween for twenty-four hours, as soon as the chron hits 00:00. Lord knows what the hell that's all about, but orders are orders.

McCoy out.

...

fin


End file.
